Fearing it Will Fade Away in Darkness
by CaffeineChic
Summary: It is not until he closes the hatch and steps fully into the room that the smell invades his nostrils.


It is not until he closes the hatch and steps fully into the room that the smell invades his nostrils. An acrid stench of vomit and illness. It is in the air, in his pores. His eyes dart around the room, not expecting to find her out here but startled when he does. She is there, in the almost-dark (a lamp is on, bathing her in an eerie glow, though it may be the illness that is drowning her in these sepia tones).

She is pressed against the armrest, her legs curled up beneath her, one hand across her eyes, blocking out the light, the room, him. The other clutches her skirt, fisting so hard into the material that her knuckles are white. Her face is ashen. The tremors rattling her body make her appear distorted, like she is vibrating so fast that the edges of her being are blurring. Even from across the room he can make out the tears on her face, the fingernail impressions on her leg where she had been gripping before she grabbed her skirt instead of flesh.

She is wearing her white headscarf (she wears it infrequently, preferring to hold it in her hands while she prays), her head covered in flowers (her mind is pierced with thorns).

He is beside her in an instant, her name falling from his mouth. She keeps her eyes covered, turns infinitesimally in his direction, her voice raw when she can finally push the words out.

"I threw up on the rug. Couldn't make it to the bathroom. I'm sorry."

He sees the stain, the former contents of her stomach (the meagreness of it is what hurts the most, her body retaining nothing but death).

"Doesn't matter (not at all, not for a second). Never liked that rug, we have nicer ones."

"We." The word is a sob and a laugh. (He knows that she forgets on occasion that he sees nothing as solely his anymore, on days like this – when she sees herself only as the woman vomiting in his quarters and not the woman sharing them.)

He reaches out, unclutching her hand from her skirt, allowing her to crush his hand instead. She winces and hisses at the movement. They are not tears that are falling. It is agony seeping directly from her body (too much of it to hold within).

"I'm calling Cottle." He is not asking, but as he makes to stand, her nails dig deep into his palm (pain masking itself as strength – he thinks she has punctured the skin) as her other hand lowers from her face to pull at his arm, to keep him seated.

It is not Laura that speaks to him.

"No, Bill, please please no. He'll take me to Life Station, he won't let me leave, I'll die there. Please no no no no."

It is the pain, the cancer, a waking nightmare. She is not conscious, rocking herself now as she begs not to die, for him not to leave her alone. He knows she will be appalled with her words later (she will argue that the Dying Leader must accept her role, must not beg to stay, not even for him), but for now she claws at him with unseeing eyes, confused and terrified and crying with agony.

"Ok, ok, ok." His words and tone are soothing (only to her, to himself they evoke no relief. It is not ok). He can refuse her nothing, not even this suffering. Not even as his heart cracks open and weeps with hers.

He pulls her legs out from under her as gently as he can, every movement causing the lines on her face to deepen, stroking the pain, making it worse. He has to hurt her before he can help her. To hurt her on purpose... it is killing him.

The sound that tears from her throat when he lifts her is so far displaced from her hum, from her laugh, from her voice, that it frightens him. It rips through her body as a shard of broken glass and slices through him, causing him to bleed along with her. They are a gaping wound of pain and fear.

He carries her to their bed and divests her of her suit, down to her underwear as quickly and as delicately as he can, even as the pain causes her to swear (at the movements, at him. She damns him in the same breath that begs him to stay).

He lays her in the rack as she curls instantly into a ball in the dark (the lamp being on or off is inconsequential – she is in the dark), nothing now but whimpering noises as he removes his uniform and crawls in behind her. He turns her slowly so that she is facing him, unfurls her slightly so that he can move his arms around her.

A hand at her neck starts to rub, deep sweeping motions, working knots and tendons, muscle and tissue. He traverses to her skull, pushes the wrap away, massages the exposed skin, seeking out the pain, trying to chase it away (he is a fighter pilot, a mission to destroy the enemy, he will not be defeated). His mouth on her forehead whispers soothing words, nonsense words, it is the sound of his voice that he wants her to hear – to know he is there, that she is safe, that he will not leave, that she is still alive. There is a way out of the nightmare, from this waking terror, his voice the sound she needs to follow, come back to what is real.

His hand moves down her skin, down her spine, across her ribs, round again to the curve at the base of her back. It takes time. He is not sure, maybe an hour, maybe more, but she slowly starts to ease, the vice grip on her body starts to loosen, to set her free. There are tears still coming from her eyes, but he can tell it is tension now being released, her face has started to relax. She is sleeping, not unconscious from pain. Twenty, thirty minutes more, he does not stop until she is a loose mass, the pain diminished. She curls into his side, an arm travelling across his chest, pulling him to her as she resituates herself in sleep.

He will have to wake her (too) soon, pull her from this exhausted slumber and take her to Life Station. He will not be asking and will not allow her to argue. They will face Cottle's ire together. He will not let her say she is fine, will not hear that it has passed and that it was not that bad. She is not fine. It has passed only for now. Things are this bad. He will not lose her to the darkness that is creeping over her and retaining its hold for longer and longer.

But for now he holds her close, keeping the dark at bay. His skin is wet with tears. Not just hers.


End file.
